


one and the same

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, I Don't Even Know, I don't know what I just wrote, I hope it's okay though, Living Together, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Short One Shot, Snippets, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, micro expressions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't really know someone until you live with them, or at least that's how the saying goes.</p><p>Or the one where sometimes actions are louder than words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one and the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldandrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandrust/gifts).



> Oh jeez..
> 
> I hope this is what you were looking for? There are subtle touches, some mind-reading, then some quirks? I guess? Pretty much the two knowing each other's actions and sort of unconsciously knowing what the other is thinking? Sort of. :p
> 
> Pretty much domestic fluff. (( or just the one where they mimic each other tbh.. kinda. lmao))

**1.**

    Lids narrow slightly as they peer into the washer machine only to find an assorted array of clothing that was not his in the slightest. The blond buries his face within his hands, releasing a low groan, before glancing about the small space for any sign of the clothes he had previously been washing before they had been removed.

    He opens up the dryer only to find it completely empty then closes it with a hushed 'click,' proceeding to lean against the machine to contemplate. Fingers tap impatiently upon the smooth surface for a thoughtful movement then he's abandoning the space in favor of returning to his bedroom where, on the floor near his bathroom door, is a basket full of sopping wet clothes.

    He hears hushed talking echo throughout the flat and he immediately goes to the source, finding Rafinha lounging on the couch, phone in his hand chattering to who-knows-who. The German narrows his gaze while the brunet raises his eyebrows in a silent exchange before he speaks in hurried Portuguese that he has to go.

    "I know that face," murmurs the Brazilian as he straightens upon the couch until he can finally stand to his feet: "You're mad, aren't you?"

    Crystal clear hues glare into chestnut eyes that are staring at him imploringly. All the male can manage is a huff as he points in the general vicinity of the laundry room, "You took my clothes out of the washer machine, Rafa. What the hell?" One slender finger darts out in accusation, poking the male in the chest.

    Rafinha tilts his chin in the air, something devious gleaming in his irises, as he points a finger back toward the taller male. "I told you I had a thing with my family tonight and you still washed anyway, plus your cycle was taking too long. I tried to wait." He states firmly with a roll of his eyes, the blond unconsciously mimicking the action.

    But still the German continues to point the finger at Rafinha, who crosses his arms defensively over his chest, "You could have at least let them wash together, Rafa." Marc, too, finds himself unconsciously crossing his arms over his chest, lip poking out slightly.

    Rafinha frowns slightly but it only lasts a moment as he stares up at Marc who is hunching forward, his thin bottom lip poking out even further. After a moment of intense silence, the younger burst out in a fit of giggles, holding onto his stomach as he does so. Marc also finds himself chuckling as he leans on the Brazilian for support, fingers playfully threading throw his low-cut hair.

    "You look just like me when I'm angry," quips the Brazilian as he shudders with laughter, swatting at the hands at his hair.

    Marc doesn't relent, however, as he smooths his fingers along the silky strands on top of the latter's head. Russet arms find their way around his waist then tug him close, burying his face within the German's chest: "Living with you has turned me into you," agrees the German as he wraps his pale arms around the younger in a warm embrace: "I forgive you, okay? Just—Try not to do it again, please?"

"Promise."

 **2.**

    Generally the two manage to wake up at the same time in the morning without the use of an alarm clock, though the blond always seems to gain access to the bathroom first. Of course the two could shower together but the blond is the more responsible one, well aware that being in the shower together would definitely lead to something that would make them late for their plans for the day.

    When he emerges from the shower he wraps a towel around his waist then unlocks the door to find a frowning Rafinha on the opposite side, arms crossed and lips poked out in a small pout. He leans down to press an apologetic peck to those frowning lips until the brunet eventually smiles into the kiss, shoving him roughly away.

    "Love you, too." Marc states before he meanders his way into the kitchen.

    Water drips rhythmically down his face to grace the counter and the tile as he reaches for a mug in one of the cabinets. He sets it on the counter then delves into the refrigerator for some milk as well as seeking out the coffee grounds and sugar. Once content he mixes the grinds into the mug, along with some water, then sets it in the microwave.

    He runs a hand through his damp locks while he watches the mug steadily rotate within the microwave before it finally dings. He patiently grabs at the handle then retrieves it to add the remainder of ingredients—exactly five teaspoons of sugar, with a decent bit of milk so the color of the coffee is a lovely beige. 

    Finally Rafinha emerges from the shower to join him in the kitchen, wearing a pair of shorts and not quite much else. One russet hand takes the mug from his grasp to sip on the blistering hot coffee, nose crinkling at the heat, but smiling nonetheless as he lifts the mug in the direction of Marc.

    "Oh, hey? While you were in the shower I made you some crepes, even though you know I suck at it."

    The grin on the blond's lips only grows wider as he glances around the kitchen to find the crepes resting on the dinner table along with a tall glass of apple juice. "We're like a married couple sometimes."

    "I just know what you like," murmurs Rafinha as he wraps both hands around the mug, lids fluttering to a content close at the heat that radiates from it. He leans forward to inhale the sweet scent then takes another daring sip, swallowing it a moment later with a sinful sounding sigh. "You made this perfect, fuck."

    Marc picks up the fork that's slanted across the plate to tear open the crepe, finding fresh strawberries oozing out of it. "I noticed how you do it every morning. I guess I picked up on some things?"

    It was then the two halt in their movements to glance at each other, both pairs of brows shifting upwards, before the younger of the two sets down his mug in favor of sauntering towards the blond. Rafinha pulls out his chair a little from the table then makes him set down his silverware in favor of straddling his lap, his hands gripping onto the back of the chair, a broad grin settling across his lips.

    "What else have you picked up on lately?"

    Marc doesn't need to form a coherent response, he only leans forward to connect their lips, sighing softly at the contrasting taste of the strawberries and coffee that mingles on his tongue.

**3.**

    Sergi is animatedly chattering on as he changes out of his jersey in favor of the button-up he had previously adorned upon arrival to the stadium. They had, of course, won the game that they had played today but he wasn't talking about that—of course not, why would he? They had only just owned the team that had practically allotted every goal they had managed.

    "I went on a date with this girl, right? And all she would talk about was Neymar, and let me tell you—.."

    Marc blinks at the male as he continues to speak, watching the way his hands move this way and that as he talks. Rafinha and Marc unconsciously bump knees then almost instantaneously gaze at each other, the younger nodding his head in the direction of Sergi who continues to ramble on and on about his unfortunate circumstances. 

    Marc quirks a brow at the Brazilian, who proceeds to tilt his head downwards, gazing at the blond through his lashes. An amused smirk twitches across the blond's lips as he watches the latter's movements, the way he glances back at Sergi—who is still currently unaware of their exchange—to coin him a slightly annoyed look then glancing back at Marc to crinkle his nose slightly in disdain for the topic.

    All Marc can do is bump knees with the Brazilian once more until he's clenching his teeth together to prevent himself from bursting out with laughter. Of course Rafinha beats him to the punch as he eventually hunches forward on the bench, one hand slapping at his knee while the other grips at the blond's bare knee.

    "You weren't supposed to laugh," hisses the blond through a chuckle of his own as he tilts his head back to release barks of laughter, one hand going over the russet one at his knee while the other presses back against the wooden bench: "I'm so—" Another howl of laughter. "So sorry, it was—It was Rafa's fault.."

    "I don't get it, what's so funny?" Sergi inquires with a look of absolute bewilderment on his countenance as he glances from the blond to the brunet and back. "No, I'm serious—.. I don't—Never mind. You guys are jerks," grumbles the man as he waves a dismissive hand at the two before calling out towards Bartra who glances back at him wearily.

**4.**

    Every night the two religiously seem to fall asleep at the same time, nearly midnight, in Marc's overly-large bed that serves no purpose other than to accommodate the two footballers. Generally speaking, the blond favored the left side of the bed, also known as the one closer to the bathroom door while Rafinha much preferred the right side that would easily lead to the kitchen in the morning.

    There the two are stretched out across the bed, or at least Rafinha is, as per usual. Russet limbs are extended this way and that across the bed in a way that barely leaves room for the blond despite the size of mattress. Arms and legs are splayed wildly and are constantly shifting, which was why the blond had started placing a pillow in between their bodies while they slept.

    It tended to lessen flailing hands that would sometimes smack him in the face or the occasional elbow in the stomach. The legs, however, were still somewhat of a problem. The brunet kicks his legs as he turns over onto his side, the back of his foot thumping against the length of Marc's leg, the light sleeper releasing a soft groan at that.

    "You're kicking again," groggily complains the German as he shifts onto his stomach, slinking an arm beneath his head.

    "Sorry," breathes the Brazilian a moment later as he shifts once more.

    Somewhere in the next few minutes their hands manage to find each other in the center of the pillow, fingers awkwardly twining together. No matter what positions the two manages to maneuver into, one thing that was always constant were the hands that would always undeniably meet somewhere in between.

 **5.**

    There are three people around them as they do an interview for whatever television program had decided to ambush them for some type of special—neither of the two were sure what the whole ordeal was about in the first place but the Brazilian star of the team, who also was the one who arguably talked the most, Neymar.

    Something about how far they had come so far in the league and how they were planning on winning the title, or at least that was the gist that Marc had gathered through the rapid-fire Spanish that is exchanged between Neymar and the Sports Reporter. When he glances at Rafinha to ask for a slowed-down version of what they were talking about, he instead finds the brunet with a tiny hint of a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

        He knew that look. Oh, he knew it well.

    For some reason the brunet seemed to thoroughly revel in being in public situations and deciding that he craved the feeling of Marc's hands on his body; he had discovered that much when the team was going to a stadium to play and the devious man had pulled the buttons on his shirt loose. Not that he minded, no of course not, but he did have the decency to wait until they were out of view to act on those urges.

    Nonetheless this time was no different. Marc narrows his eyes playfully as he stares at the brunet, whose smirk only grows wider on his lips. One pale hand slides down to brush along the younger's lower back, resting it there for a thoughtful moment. The blond is aware of the reporter not even a few feet away as well as the various cameras that record as well as violently flash in his face, but he doesn't concern himself over it, in fact: something about it is peculiarly scandalous.

    He taps his fingers once, twice, thrice against Rafinha's lower back before reluctantly removing it, the brunet coining him a playful wink as he straightens back up, crossing his arms across his chest.

    "And what about you, Ter Segen? What do you plan on doing to bring the team to another successful victory?"

    Chestnut hues are on him once more, something sinful lurking in those dark depths, his lips twitching upwards once more. Marc can hardly tear his eyes away from the sight—the unspoken promise of what would occur once the event was over blatant in his mind—but after a moment he does, instead shifting his attention's to the reporter: "It's all about the hands and what you do with them," is what he settles with, which earns him a suspicious glance from Neymar, who raises his hands in the air as if silently pondering what the hell he was talking about.

**Author's Note:**

> Was it okay? I hope so D:
> 
> I actually have no idea what I just wrote honestly. Watching the game today sort of had me in a 'meh,' mood when I wrote this. Atletico advanced. Well then. Lol ( congrats to them but I honestly thought Bayern would have brought the heat today :p )


End file.
